Loss of Innocence
by DJN31GH-and-Derpy
Summary: A comprehensive insight into the lives of the survivors of Britain Airways flight 79, and human psychology itself.


"Loss of Innocence"

A comprehensive insight into the lives of the survivors of Britain Airways Flight 79 and human psychology itself.

What exactly is human nature? What is the unavoidable driving force that makes us do what we do as a species? Does it come from some deep rooted gene shared by our ancestors? Or is it product of our modern need for civilization? Perhaps a delve into the minds of those who have came to our species' very core of ethics can help to understand and answer these inquiries.

What follows is a compilation of observations, interviews, facts and first hand resources of an event that made many question our place on this very earth.

**Flight 79**

Conflicts had been dense in the airspace that resided over the Atlantic ocean between Great Britain and the Americas. The sky was constantly littered with the explosions of anti aircraft fire and the screams of engines. It was unfortunate then, that this area also contained set routes for commercial aircraft as well as those in military service. One of said aircraft happened to be Britain Airways Flight 79. En route to North America, the craft had deviated from its normal pre-wartime path in hopes to avoid the full force of the aerial battles. The plane holding a class of British school boys, whom were on their way to Chicago on an international field trip, flew over the lower half of the Atlantic ocean. The attempt at avoiding conflict however, was futile. Even though both sides of the war were informed that civilian aircraft shared airspace, the wide range of flak had caught the plane's tail, sending it into the small cluster of islands that resided below.

Before this event had occurred, these islands were largely unexplored, and most uncharted. Those who survived the crash were thrown into a situation of no adult authority, rules or rescue. The occurrences that unfolded on the island ultimately demonstrated a social decentralization and breakdown of accepted society. These events are told by those who were willing to reveal the details of their experiences.

Roger Orton -11yrs

Jack Merridew – 12yrs

Ralph Laurie – 12yrs

*****ages are at time of crash

I was able to conduct a total of three interviews. Ralph Laurie, Roger Orton, and Captain Arnold Reeves (the commanding officer aboard the naval ship that eventually rescued the survivors). Jack

Merridew refused any and all involvement.

* * *

><p><strong>Roger Orton<strong>

**Age at time of interview: 22yrs**

I had searched the name feverishly after seeing it tied with the events after the crash. It lead me through court cases, criminal investigations, a psychological study, and finally to Argon National Asylum.

Before the interview took place, I was able to gather that Roger had been recently found guilty for the murder of Jonathan "Piggy" Renalds, a fellow classmate whom was killed on the island. At the time shortly after Roger returned home however, all evidence was found to be inconclusive and he was relieved of any legal punishment due to his age. He was sent to a pediatric psychiatrist, who was unable to find anything mentally wrong with the child.

Talking to his father a few weeks before contacting the asylum, a few details were revealed that further spiked my interest...and chilled my spine at the same time.

He said "Roger took up an interest in hunting. I wasn't worried, I was happy to see that my son took a liking to a sport that got him out of the house." Roger's father was a seasoned hunter, and owned his own plot of land on which he hunted deer and elk.

"I took him out one fall, and was amazed. No hesitation, first try he took a buck down. I was proud, and it was definitely something to be celebrated..." His expression paled a bit, and his eyes moved from my mine to several spots around the room before he continued. "...but then, something...well, odd happened. He insisted he clean and skin it himself. No worry, I -uh...I went to show him how, but before I could tell him where to start, he began perfectly."

His eyes shifted to mine, I quickly returned my eyes to the notebook in my lap as he continued. "Now, it was his first time coming out hunting, and I never showed him how to carve dinner, let alone skin a deer, but from start to finish, no mistakes, no hesitation or uncertainty." He swallowed nervously, and started tapping the desk at which he was sitting.

"At the time it was "Well, look my son has a knack for hunting, nothing else." But now I see that it was something to look out for."

Years past without any incidents, Roger was in high school and studying anatomy and other medical sciences. He wanted to be a surgeon or medical doctor. Unfortunately, a particular classmate would single out Roger for teasing and injury.

He hadn't told any supervisors or teachers.

The local police station's records show that the bully was found behind the school's rear entrance, dead from a smooth laceration to the neck, and missing all his fingers. It wasn't long before Roger (then 18) was charged for murder in the 1st degree. After searching his room, all ten of the victim's fingers were found packaged in ice, residing in Roger's closet along with a few journal entries that described the murder perfectly. In the same notebook were pages portraying in detail, the plans for killing his mother, father and two siblings.

After a psychological evaluation, Roger was found criminally insane and possessing sadistic tendencies. He was originally sentenced to a federal prison, but the jury was convinced an asylum was a more appropriate home.

Which is where this interview was conducted.

The women at the desk took my keys, wallet, belt and pens. She insisted that I use a short, dull golf pencil with no eraser if I wanted to write anything down. His room was a sterile white, spacious with barred windows, a small desk with a lamp, and a cot. He was laying in his bed when the staff knocked, and unlocked his door.

He looked quite healthy for a imprisoned soul. Cheerful, talkative, no one would ever know he took joy in the deaths of others.

"Hello!" He was happy, too happy. Almost as if he was forced to be joyful. I returned the smile, not wanting to fully acknowledge I was in room with a man who admitted he found murder "surprisingly relaxing". The questions were simple, the answers were simple, and the whole time an aura of false comfort hung over the room like a wrecking ball.

Shortly I came to the answers that should have changed his wistful demeanor. I asked him why he killed Jonathan, bluntly. His skin was dry, no sweat. He didn't clear his throat, cough, or look away. No signs of nervousness, discomfort or remorse were displayed by this man.

He smirked, a one sided smiled that raised his left cheek. Rolling his eyes with a chuckle, he said. "It was chaotic, the whole bunch was just whooping and yelling and flailing about, but after a few minutes it was quite boring really. I threw some rocks down at em'. Ah, I was on top of a rock-type of fortress that we had found, but my aim was off a tad. I remembered, I was leaning on this stick that held this rather large boulder that we could use as like a defense. So, I..." He shrugged and smirked again. "...just leaned on it and watch it fall."

His smirk turned in to a wide grin and his eyes lit up with comforting nostalgia and childish excitement as he explained the details of what happened next. "Oh, you should've seen it, Lil' pig was right in the way of it." He made a gesture with his arm that resembled a jet flying through the air. "Pheeew, right it went, hit em' straight on, it did." He was about to explain more gruesome details, but saw my bemused expression and was polite enough to stop.

Desperate to change the subject, I asked him about the map that was taped to the wall above his cot. He turned and exclaimed as he bolted towards it.

"Ah, that dusty old thing?" He ripped it off the wall, tearing it a bit. He held up the map, pointed to it and chuckled. "You won't believe my memory."

There was pause, he was about to point out some locations on the sketched map of the island, but something happened. His eyes looked through me and he stopped in mid-thought. His smile turned into a frustrated scowl, his eyebrows twisting downward, showing his anger.

"...but it's useless!" He violently shoved them in my lap, provoking a questioning look from the staff. "Take it!" He grunted. "Take it' and leave."

I walked down the corridor and heard shouts coming from behind me. Roger was apparently repeatedly banging his head forcibly against the wall of his cell, and the nurses were tying to stop him.

I dare not look back.

It seems the time he had spent on the island coupled with the unnerving experiences he faced had turned Roger into something a little less human. The wistful and endearing acceptance of being a murderer, drastic changes of mood, and self destructive behavior...it didn't take a Psychology degree to diagnose Mr. Orton.

**Psychopathy**

_psy·chop·a·thy [sahy-kop-uh-thee] _

_noun, plural _

_a mental disorder in which an individual manifests amoral and antisocial behavior, lack of ability to love or establish meaningful personal relationships, extreme egocentricity, failure to learn from experience, remorselessness etc._

Jack Merridew refused my interviewing him with an insult and a missed right hook to the jaw. I did however, attend the trial that both him and Ralph Laurie attended, where I was able to write the following from my notes.

* * *

><p><strong>Jack Merridew - 23<strong>

**Court House**

**800 hours**

**Honorable Judge Braeburn**

"You are charged with criminal manipulation, murder in the 2nd degree, and treason...how do you plead?" The pot-belly judge loomed over the court room from up atop his podium.

Jack sat in his chair, eyes down, silent. The look of disgust was evident by his arched brow and hunched posture. The judge repeated his question, louder and more annoyed. Still, silence. Jack darted his eyes from his lap to Ralph, who was playing the passive role as displayed by his body language. Ralph also found his eyes unable to focus on one spot. He was making idle, nervous twitches and movements with his clasped hands, and from the grimace upon his face, a knot had formed in his stomach. Jack returned his eyes to his own hands.

The judged started. "Mr. Merridew, if you cannot comply there is no reason for-"

"I didn't kill anyone." Jack said, barely audible.

"You need to speak louder Mr. Merridew." Replied the Judge.

"I didn't kill anyone." Jack rose his voice to a menacing tone.

"Calm your tone, you are-" The judge was interrupted once more.

Jack suddenly stood up, pushing the chair out from under him. He rose to his full height, back still slightly arched forward. His eyes shot towards the judge, they were spheres of molten liquid. His top lip curled backwards and in a fit of animalistic rage, he roared out. "I didn't kill anyone!"

The judge slammed his gavel upon the wood in front of him in an attempt to restore order. "You Sir, will be held in contempt of court! Sit down!" Jack still standing, brought his fists up to his forehead in frustration, and yelled a second time, louder, the same four words of protest.

"I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE!"

His screams drowned out the orders of the Judge, and the uproar of the jury. Two court officers approached him from either side. Jack caught the closer one to his left in his peripheral vision, and preempted his attempt at subduing him. The officer's advance was met with a well-aimed jab. It connected perfectly with his nose, no doubt tearing the the delicate tissue that was housed within. He blindly stepped backwards, clutching his face with bloody hands. Jack, still repeating the words that were burned into his head, was eventually overwhelmed by the security of the court.

He was charged with Assaulting an Officer of the Court, and consequently sentenced to a minimum of five years in federal prison. Three months into his sentence Jack received a fatal stab wound from a makeshift prison knife after starting a brawl with his fellow inmates.

While he may not have been criminally insane like Mr. Orton, Jack's time on the island definitely made him a more violent person. This, coupled with his denial of any wrongdoing made for a dangerous combination when he was accused in the court of law. In prison, he picked a fight he must have known he could not win, but was convinced of victory under a veil of rage and ferocity.

* * *

><p><strong>Ralph Laurie <strong>

**Age at time of interview: 24yrs**

Compared to the other interviewees, Ralph was an interesting person. He was able to relay the events of the island with a calm demeanor. Not so much so as he did not feel any remorse, but by far it seemed he was the most mentally stable of all the survivors I was able to interview.

I found Ralph purely out of coincidence. I was attending a Psychology lecture open to the public. Technically it was only open to the alumni of the university, but that didn't stop me from flashing my press ID and walking in. With the exception of myself, everyone possessed a name tag. Taking my place I happened to be sitting next to someone I could have sworn I knew. It was only when I saw his name that I realized I was sitting next to Ralph Laurie, whom I had been wanting to interview for some time now.

I had the opportunity that afternoon, after the lecture. I started off by asking if he knew the whereabouts of those who returned from the island. He said he knew that Jack was in prison, but had no clue where Roger was. When I revealed to him that Roger was declared insane, and Jack had been murdered, he kept his composure and said.

"I don't want to sound pessimistic, but I'm not surprised. I'm lucky."

"How so?" I inquired. He sighed and straightened his posture.

"Do you know what the most resilient virus known to man is?" He asked as he leaned forward.

I grinned under the cover of my paper coffee cup. I knew where this was going, but I decided to play along. "Enlighten me."

"An idea." Bingo, I knew it. I was being cross examined by the man I came to interview. Surely this was going to be a philosophical game of chess.

"Once an idea has taken hold in a person's mind it will grow and can never be contained. On the island, that idea was survival and freedom. At first I was all too glad to be away from authority..." He chuckled. "...only know I see how foolish I actually was." He leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. "The idea that it was acceptable to turn to savagery and disregard the worth of human life wasn't really an idea at all. The way I see it, everyone has that desire in them. Only, years of living under the moral codes and ethical laws that have come to be the norm have suppressed it to point where we barely notice it." He sighed. "But it's there, it'll always be there. Not having anyone to slap us on the wrist didn't create it, it just made a channel for it to come out.

I decided to stylize my questions a bit more. "So, how come you're not dead or a psychopath?"

He looked at me, I saw he had caught on to my next move across the chessboard.

"Good question, I was hoping we could come up with an answer during this session...you do study psychology don't you?" Well played, Mr. Laurie.

"As do you, but I have not experienced what you have. That makes all the difference."

Stalemate. This was becoming more of a mental tug of war than an interview.

"Roger would've been been fine if it wasn't for Jack's influence. As a leader I could've nipped it in the bud, but I didn't."

"Do you feel responsible for their deaths?" I asked, it was starting to delve into emotional territory.

"Every day. I couldn't help Jack, but Simon, Piggy, Roger..." He looked away. His psychological testing of me was his way of dealing with the guilt he felt. I am no psychiatrist, and I wasn't in the place to tell him it wasn't his fault, no matter what I felt.

"Jack, he was just...angry. He wanted to hunt and kill because he knew no one would stop him. His endeavors grew on the rest of the group, and one by one they followed him back to a place where you only cared about yourself." His calm expression now showed signs of uncertainty. "It started with the child with the birthmark...in the fire. Of course it was an accident, but it still happened." Ralph was now visibly getting nervous, he was fidgeting in his chair, and his forehead glistened with sweat. "Then Simon, he knew...he knew that this beast, this thing we were all afraid of was real...and that it was actually only ourselves we had to fear." He tried to crack his neck, letting air out through an "o" shaped mouth. "...and Piggy, he knew too. He knew that it had to stop. Anyone who new the truth died, either by accident or..." He licked his dry lips and swallowed. A clear of his throat, and the wipe of his brow and the interview was over. He put on the nicest false smile, shook my hand and told me to have a nice day.

* * *

><p><strong>Captain Arnold Reeves<strong>

**Age at time of interview: 47yrs**

Captain Reeves, naval officer, commanding his ship on a routine patrol, sees heavy plumes of smoke rising from what was thought to be an uninhabited island. He brings his craft ashore, ventures inland with his crew, and sees children, dirty and covered in war paint, holding crudely-made spears.

He was hands down, the most depressed of anyone I talked to. Although he might not have shown it throughout is daily life, when asked questions or reminded of what he saw and heard, his outer shell of military stoic withered away.

"At first I...I thought they were just playing games. I didn't know that some of them actually killed each other." It was odd, seeing a grown man with a rustic, strict voice stumble over his words in sadness and uncertainty. "When I saw some of their eyes, I wasn't looking at children anymore. They were...something else." His tone was solemn, as if each word on the subject paid respect to those who never left the island.

"What was it like, having them all in your ship after they had been away for authority so long?"

I asked.

"A lot of them cried, I worried for those who didn't. Even the older ones couldn't keep it in. Other than that is was silent. No talking, no whispers...just silence."

"What about those who died on the island, did you ever go back?"

He shook his head. "We couldn't, we needed to return as soon as possible. Even if we did look, I'm not sure there would be anything worth looking for."

I asked him how anything like this could've happen, what were the causes of this loss of sanity and social destruction.

His left eye twitched slightly and he needlessly coughed. "I...I don't know. I mean, they didn't have anyone to tell them right from wrong, but even still they should've been able to keep things under control."

"Do you think things would've been different had you not arrived when you did?"

"Of course. The first boy we saw, uh, Ralph?" I nodded my head. "We looked as if he had been sprinting for miles. The others were chasing him and he had a cut in his side." Another sigh.

"They would've killed em'"

A short silence followed and only the shallow breathing of the officer and the scribbles in my notebook found their way into my ears, but then something happened that still haunts me to this day.

Captain Arthur Reeves, a forty-seven year old man, started to cry. They weren't sobs of utter depression, but sniffles and tears were evident on his face.

That day I saw a grown man weep.

He wept for those that never left the island.

He wept for those that couldn't live normal lives after they returned.

But most of all...

He wept for the loss of innocence.

The interview ended shortly after, I had what I came for, and left with something more. It seems that we as a species are utterly terrifying. What we have done to each other and what we continue to do are bloody tributes to a time before civilization. If there ever was a more appropriate study into what we are in our core, it is the events after the crash of Britain Airways flight 79.

That being said, the fact that this devil inside of it quote, unquote "human nature" only serves as an excuse for the weak. This basic human desire to kill and maim has reared its ugly head in three young men.

Jack, as said before was murdered in prison.

Roger was eventually found dead in his room after he had ripped his own nails off and repeatedly banged his had against the wall, where the map had hung before he gave it to me.

Ralph gave his classmate William Golding permission to turn his experiences into the novel Lord of The Flies. He wished for no recognition, and hung himself in his apartment three days later.


End file.
